


ride it, my pony.

by furiosawrites



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: All the fun and none of the responsibility, F/F, I should do more of this, Lazy writers like myself at least, One-Shot goodness, This is like a one-night stand for writers lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-03-31 19:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3989359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furiosawrites/pseuds/furiosawrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beca Mitchell challenges Kommissar to a beer drink-off. Becommissar one-shot AU prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ride it, my pony.

**A/N** : Read this with Pony playing in the background you will not regret it. One shot Tumblr propt. 

* * *

 

She should have known from the start that challenging a  _German_  to a beer drinking contest was a bad idea. Especially one who’s over six feet tall and probably capable of drinking a lot more than she does. After the third bottle of beer she starts to realize that it had been a  _very_  bad idea – but she can’t exactly back away  _now_ , can she? If she did, it would look very bad, and she knows that Kommissar would never let her live it down; so she sucks it up. Quite literally, because after the sixth bottle of Budweiser she’s  _beyond_  drunk.

Was it just her or did these beers seem to be stronger than the usual beers she drinks? Or maybe it’s just the fact that she feels naked under Kommissar’s icy gaze… or maybe that, after the fourth beer, somewhere between the fifth and a quarter of the eight, she got rid of her sweater, and when she’s struggling to remain standing, with her ninth bottle of beer in hand, Beca finds herself on a mini sofa, more like a love-seat, really, squashed between the arm of the sofa and a very flushed, very smirk-y Kommissar. 

“I think,” why does she always speak so slow? Her tongue wets her lower lip and she seems to do that in slow motion. Beca is staring at it like it’s a piece of art. “I win.” Beca wants to protest, but when she tries to move she ends up in Kommissar’s lap.  
  
How the hell did  _that_ happen?! 

She’s struggling to think right now; everything’s so… blurry and the lights are too bright and Kommissar looks like an angel with a halo on her head and a glow to her skin.

Beca remembers angry compliments, flushed cheeks and a challenge; she remembers the bar, the beers, though how many at this point she doesn’t. She remembers Kommissar teasing her in German. A lot. And she remembers her complimenting her a lot, in various different ways. She remembers Chloe. Angry. Why was Chloe angry?

“Feisty mouse,” she shivers, trembles, because there’s a sensual voice whispering in her ear, teeth nibbling her lobe. “Earth calls you.” Beca giggles–  _what the fuck?!_  She’s _giggling_ , oh God. Oh God. This is bad. This is BEYOND code red, bad! But the damage’s already done, and her body seems to be incapable of following the demands from her brain, or the part of her brain that is not intoxicated by Kommissar. There’s Kommissar everywhere. She can feel her legs and her hips. Her body between her legs because somehow she ended up straddling Kommissar on the love-seat, legs resting at each side of her body. She can feel her breasts against her own, her breath licking her skin. 

There’s a song playing in the background… it’s sexy… slow and… before Beca can stop herself she feels her own hips rolling, moving, up and down, from side to side. She’s not a bad dancer but she isn’t exactly Stacie or Cynthia-Rose; but right here, right now, all that matters is how she moves it, how it grinds up and down on Kommissar’s. 

The moment she hears a moan escape those lips she knows she’s doing something right.

With a grin on her lips, she snakes her arms around Kommissar’s neck and starts giving her a  _very_ intimate lap-dance, her hand travelling down from her shoulder to her breast, squeezing, then down to her stomach and up to her face. Kommissar pulls away gently to look at Beca with lust-dark eyes, and the Bella laughs as she draws the lips she’s been thinking of all night with her thumb.

Kommissar is a teasing little shit, because she takes this opportunity to play too, and opens her mouth to suck on Beca’s thumb more sensually than was  _allowed_. 

 _This is definitely what a toner would feel like_ , Beca thinks as she whimpers, grinds harder, slower. At this point it almost feels like they’re fucking with clothes on, but she’s enjoying the song she can’t recognize through the beat alone, and she’s enjoying the dark and the buzz in her ears, the flush in her cheeks. The lust filled alcoholic state of mind she’s in is… great. “Kiss me.” Beca whispers, her lips inches from Kommissar’s.

As they’re moving against each other, Kommissar’s hands firmly grasping Beca by her hips, moving along with her, following their rhythm,  _screw the music_ , Beca moves to kiss her, but the hot, teasing,  _bitch_  turns her head just before their lips touch, and in a quick gesture she has Beca on the sofa, supporting her weight on the back of the sofa with her arms as she looks down at her tiny, sweet-looking little mouse. She smirks, licks her lips painfully slow because she  _knows_  that will drive her mouse crazy. 

“ _Beg_.”

And it’s her turn to tease now. She stands up and starts dancing by herself, just as teasingly as Beca had done on her lap. She turns her back on Beca, goes all the way to the floor, all the while feeling those sweet, hazel eyes fixed on her body.

She counts, in her head. How long will it take the little mouse to give in?  
  
_Eight seconds_. Not bad. Kommissar laughs as she feels dainty hands pulling her back down, and soon she’s being straddled by a rather desperate little Bella, and before she can protest or push her off, she’s being kissed like there won’t be a tomorrow and despite her plans to torture Beca, she gives in. She can’t resist, as strange as it is. She’s just as attracted to this tiny mouse as she is to her. 

Beca’s hips have a mind of their own, and soon, they’re grinding, again, slow and teasing and her hands are wondering– again. She has to touch every inch of Kommissar’s body, you see. She has to make sure she’s _real_. She breaks the kiss, breathing heavily against kiss-swollen lips.  
  
“I don’t beg,” and she’s barely recovered her breath before she’s kissing her again. The grinding soon turns to Kommissar’s hand down Beca’s jeans and the rest is… drunken history. 

* * *

She wakes up in her car, with a headache that kills, missing pants and in a messy-haired tall blonde’s arms. She doesn’t remember how any of this happened, but she remembers there was Budweiser, Ginuwine and a lot of Magic Mike-styled grinding. 

It’s safe to say she won’t be challenging anyone else on  _who can drink before before getting REALLY drunk_  any time soon. 


End file.
